A Vixen for a Viscount: Book 2: Hyacinth - Clean Regency Romance (A Duke's Daughters - The Elbury Bouquet)

by Arietta Richmond

  “Tom.”

  “Yes, milady?”

  “Might you do an errand for me?”

  “An errand, milady?”

  “Yes, I want to get a copy of a newssheet, without anyone else knowing.”

  The boy looked at her, and a slow smile spread across his face.

  “Secrets, is it, milady? I’m good at keepin’ secrets. What is it you wants a copy of?”

  “Its called ‘The Society Commentator’ But I think that everyone calls it ‘The Gossip Gazette’. I want a copy from one of the last three days.”

  “It’ll be a few pence t’buy, milady…”

  Hyacinth smiled, and handed him the coins she had brought. There was significantly more than the cost of the newssheet, she knew.

  “The rest is for you, for your trouble.”

  “Thankee, milady. I’ll be off then – you come back out t’ the garden in an hour or two, and I’ll have it for ye.”

  Hyacinth nodded, and the boy gave her an exaggerated bow, before running off, out through the gate and down the laneway.

  The following two hours seemed to last forever. She went in, settled in the library with a book, and called for tea and biscuits – the idea of going to the breakfast room, and eating anything more substantial was just not something that she could contemplate. She sipped the tea, and attempted to read, but did not really succeed – she found herself reading the same page, over and over. She tried another book, but it held her interest even less. In the end, she simply sat, half dozing after her poor night’s sleep, as the mantel clock ticked inexorably slowly through the required time. Its soft chime startled her back to awareness, and she rose, yawning, and so very glad that it was time to return to the garden.

  Not long after she had stepped onto the shady path beyond the rose beds, the boy slipped through the gate, and came towards her. As he did, he removed something folded from his rather ragged looking shirt, and held it by his side. He paused when he reached her, and dipped a little bow, then moved on, surreptitiously handing her the folded paper as he did.

  To anyone looking on, it would look as if he had simply politely acknowledged her as he went to the servants’ door. She did not look at the tightly folded paper – she simply put it carefully into her pocket, bent and sniffed at the roses for a moment, then turned, and went back into the house, and up to her room.

  Once inside, with the door locked, she drew it out, and unfolded the newssheet. It was printed on flimsy, poor quality paper, but the text was clear enough. There, down one side of the page, was a column labelled ‘The Voice of Truth’ – a headline which was enough to make her laugh, so improbable was it that one might normally find anything approaching truth in a scandal sheet.

  She began to read the words below the heading, and as she did, she felt dizzy, icy cold, her head spinning, almost as if she was about to faint – and Hyacinth never, ever, fainted! The words were hers – this particular set of words being something that she had written, perhaps two months ago. Her words had been changed a little, to make things sound more scandalous than they were, but still, it was easy to recognise the characters involved, and the core of truth in it.

  This particular piece was about Lady Gosham and Lord Bessmark. Hyacinth cast the dreadful thing into the fire, and curled into a little ball on her bed, shaking. Someone had found the journal, and her worst fears, indeed even worse than her worst fears, had come true. They were using her journal as material for the ‘Gossip Gazette’ – and if they published one piece a day, that journal still held enough material to keep them going for near a year.

  No one knew that she had written those words, but, eventually, someone might begin to look around them, to work out who might have been present at all of the events which an article had been written about. And if they did, would they remember Lady Hyacinth, of the shrewish tongue and sharp-edged comments? Quite likely they would. No proof would be needed – just the rumoured suspicion would be enough.

  Enough to destroy her, and her sisters, by association.

  She cried then, a sound of hopeless despair, for she could see no way to stop this, no way to prevent things going on, until someone worked it out. She had been a fool – she had allowed herself to think that taking the journal to the park was reasonable, and then she had compounded her foolishness by being such a flutterhead about Lord Kevin coming to call, that she had not ensured that the journal was safe when she had left the park.

  She would never write down her observations again. She would have to find some other way to get them out of her mind, to relieve the incessant pressure, which otherwise led her to speak her thoughts unwisely. But no amount of resolution to be more sensible in future could change what had already happened. Now, at every event, she would most likely hear people speak of the gossip column, and would need to dissemble, to hide her reactions. To never, ever, give the slightest clue that she might have possibly had anything to do with those articles being written.

  <<<< O >>>>

  Lord Puglinton sat at his desk, the red leather journal in his hands. It really had been the most wonderful find. The new column was gaining more interest from the readers every day, and sales were nearly twice what they had been, two weeks ago. The journal contained a lot of material – enough to keep the column going for some months – but not forever. Which meant that discovering who had written that journal had become imperative. He would not allow this boost to his wealth to falter, now that it had begun. Which meant that more material needed to be written.

  So far, he had come to the conclusion that the writer was almost certainly a member of the aristocracy – for who else could have been in all of the right places to have seen the things that the journal entries recorded? Quite why they might have recorded all of their cynical and somewhat sarcastic views of their peers in a journal escaped him – but he did not care. All that mattered was that they had done so.

  He thought, perhaps, that the writer was a woman. For the writing, even though done in pencil rather than ink, showed a flowing style more common to women than men, in his experience. In addition, the journalist commented, often, on the foibles of feminine fashion, in a way that he suspected few men would be capable of. But that did not exactly narrow the field of possibilities very far.

  He turned it over again, searching it for any sign of a name, but there was none – nothing to indicate ownership. Perhaps that had been wise, and intentional on the part of the writer. But it was a damnable inconvenience for him. Surely, there was something about it to give him a clue. He looked at it again, paying close attention.

  The leather exterior was no help, bearing nothing beyond the scuffs and scratches of years of handling. The first pages, where one might normally expect a person to write their name, bore no writing – only those childish watercolour blotches. He wondered, as he looked at them, if the person who had painted them as a child was the adult who had written in the journal, in such biting indictments of society. Was there a clue in those blotches?

  He eyed them again – what were they meant to represent?

  He allowed his eyes to unfocus a little, and to simply take in the whole impression, rather than looking at detail. The blotches, viewed that way, looked a little like… flowers? The sort of flowers that were a cluster of tiny blossoms around an upright stalk. If that was what they were meant to be, what did that tell him, if anything? Girls painted flowers all the time.

  Perhaps the type of flower mattered? He knew that he was grasping at the veriest tiny threads here, but still, it was worth considering everything – for finding the writer was a prize worth the annoyance of this. He was by no means well educated on the types of flowers in existence, beyond the existence of roses and such like, which one might give to a lady, so attempting to remember the names of flowers was a great struggle.

  What sorts of flowers looked like that – an upright stick with a cluster of small blossoms around it? Hollyhocks? Not quite right. Foxglove? No. Lupins? They were often that blueish colou
r – did the colour matter? Snapdragon? None of them, from the faint memories he had of being told which flower was which, seemed quite right. What other flowers were blue? Perhaps the colour was the most significant – after all, children tended to be very direct in their attempts to replicate the world around them.

  None came to mind. Irritated, he closed the journal and locked it away in his desk. He would think on it more, later. For now, he needed to eat, and then prepare for the Ball he was to attend that night. Perhaps Lady Hyacinth would be there, and he could spend some more time convincing her that she should marry – preferably him. She might have a sharp tongue, but that dowry… Lady Hyacinth was …

  Hyacinth….

  He stopped, and sat there, breathing hard.

  Hyacinth. A blue flower, which consisted of a collection of tiny blossoms around a central stalk.

  Lady Hyacinth Gardenbrook. A woman with a sharp tongue and a rather cynical view of those around her. A woman who lived across the square, and whom he had seen spend time in the park. The park he had gone to, hoping to meet her, on the day when he had found the journal.

  Was it possible? Had he been spending time with the writer of all of this wonderful gossip, for months, without knowing it? The more that he thought about it, the more logical it seemed, the more obvious – and the more delightful.

  For he would no longer need to gently persuade her of anything. With this, he could almost certainly blackmail her into doing whatever he wanted. For if she was revealed as the writer of the column, she would become a pariah in the eyes of society – they did not like those who betrayed their own – gossip whispered in corners was accepted – gossip published in scandal sheets was another matter entirely. And if she was spurned, so would her sisters be. He was quite sure that Lady Hyacinth would do the noble thing, to protect her sisters.

  As he thought about it, he realised that her writing was of more value to him, even, than her dowry would be. For if she could write an endless amount of this gossip about the ton, fuelled by her ongoing observations of them, it would make him far more money than even her dowry, over time, if the circulation of the Society Commentator continued to increase as it had since he had first printed the ‘Voice of Truth’ column.

  Smiling, he went to prepare for the evening.

  <<<< O >>>>

  Hyacinth was beginning to be rather over going to Balls – but the Season was slowing towards its close, as May moved into June, and the days got ever warmer. She stood in the ballroom at Porthaven House, and looked at the assembled people. Were they whispering about the ‘Voice of Truth’ gossip column? Were they looking at everyone present, wondering who wrote those articles?

  She shivered at the thought, feeling exposed, and terribly alone. Lord Kevin was not there. Yet again, he had disappeared, with no word to her. All of her doubts about him resurfaced – did he have a mistress somewhere? She shook her head – what business of hers was it if he did? No matter that she liked him, there was nothing formal between them. People milled around her, talking to her parents, and to her sisters. Lily and Lord Canterford stood in the midst of a group of people, all of whom were congratulating them on their betrothal. Hyacinth felt somehow isolated amongst them, as if she was not quite, truly, present.

  “Lady Hyacinth – it’s delightful to see you tonight. You will grant me this dance, won’t you?”

  Lord Puglinton stood before her, his smile reminiscent of a wolf regarding a rabbit, and the tone of his words indicating that he did not expect her to do anything except comply. Her sense of despair deepened. She could not, now more than ever, afford to create a scene. She set her expression into her best bland social mask, and placed her hand on his proffered arm.

  “Of course, Lord Puglinton. I trust that you are well?”

  The most basic of conversation seemed safest.

  “Very well indeed, Lady Hyacinth, the more so because you are here this evening.”

  Hyacinth looked at him, wondering why he was so cheerful, so much more so than normal. They took their places in the line, as the orchestra began to play, and she allowed herself to simply follow the steps, attempting to speak as little as possible. His lips twisted into a smile again – a smile that seemed mocking, somehow.

  “Lady Hyacinth, you seem most subdued this evening – have you nothing to say? Or are you turning your excellent powers of observation upon those around you, so assiduously that you have not time for speech?”

  His words chilled her – what was he implying? He couldn’t possibly know… could he?

  The dance spun them around, then brought them back together to promenade down between the lines. When they reached the end, instead of spinning her out so that they each joined the lines again, he tugged her onwards, and all but dragged her out through the doors onto the terrace above the garden.

  “Lord Puglinton! What…”

  “Shhh. You will find out soon enough.” He pulled her along the terrace, until they stood at the far end, well enough away from the doors to not be easily overheard. “I think, Lady Hyacinth, that you are hiding a secret.”

  “A secret? What on earth do you mean?”

  Her heart beat thunderously against her ribs, and fear shot through her - did he know?

  Puglinton laughed.

  “You can pretend all you like, Lady Hyacinth, but I am quite sure that you are the author of all of that delightful gossip. The style is so similar to the way that you speak, when you attempt to deliver a set down. That red leather journal was a most serendipitous find.”

  Her fists clenched at her sides, and for a moment, she could not breathe. He did know. He had her journal – and, somehow, he was responsible for its publication.

  “I don’t know what you are speaking of.”

  She cursed herself inwardly at the slight shake in her voice.

  Puglinton laughed again, and it was not a pleasant sound.

  “My dear Lady, I can see that you know exactly what I am speaking of, even if you deny it. So, let me be blunt, as you are so fond of being. I want something from you. Preferably yourself, as a wife. But, if you are unwise enough to wish to remain a spinster, then there is another option, at least for a while – I may come back to marriage later, when perhaps you will have tired of being alone. I want you to continue to write your delightful commentaries on society – as many of them as you can produce, as fast as you can produce them. In return, I will agree not to reveal you as the author. I am quite certain that the doyennes of society would not be forgiving – especially as my editor has… enhanced… some of your stories a little. And you would not want your sisters’ reputations to suffer, would you – even if you care nothing for your own?”

  Hyacinth forced herself to be still, for anything she said would almost certainly confirm everything to him.

  “Nothing to say? I will allow you that, tonight. But I will not give you more than four weeks to give me your answer. In four weeks, if you have not agreed to my offer, in one way or another, then I will expose you as the writer, in the most shocking way that I can manage.” He bowed to her, mockingly, with an excessive flourish. “Good evening Lady Hyacinth. Do enjoy the rest of the Ball.”

  Chapter Ten

  Kevin sat with his father in the study at Chester Park, tiredness filling him. He had not intended to be back here so soon, yet his mother had sent a letter, begging that he come home for at least a few days, to help with all of the organising for Charles and Maria’s wedding. Why it took so much, when they had intentionally chosen to have a quiet wedding in the nearby small church, he was not quite sure, but he had come as she had asked.

  Lord Chester looked more careworn than ever, and seemed, somehow, to have shrunk somewhat since Kevin had seen him last, but a few weeks before. Kevin rose, and went to the sideboard, filling two glasses from the brandy decanter. As he replaced the stopper in the decanter, an odd choked sound came from behind him. He spun around, to see his father hastily wiping his lips with a handkerchief. A handkerchief which was
spotted with blood. In two steps, Kevin was beside Lord Chester, his hand halting his father’s as the older man tried to shove the stained handkerchief into a pocket.

  “Father… that makes it obvious that, as I had suspected, something is very much amiss with you. Please, tell me the truth of it. Why have you hidden this?”

  Lord Chester sighed, and Kevin stepped back, then retrieved the glasses of brandy, and sat down beside him again. His father sipped his brandy, and Kevin waited, hoping that he would get truth, not avoidance.

  “Why have I hidden it? Because this is a time for Maria to be happy, for her to marry, and go to have a life of her own with a man who will be good to her. You know your sister – if she knew that I ailed in any way, she would be brewing healing tisanes and refusing to leave here until she either healed me, or I was gone from this earth. That’s no life for a young woman who has already suffered enough! I am quite sure that this can’t be healed, anyway. My grandfather went this way, and I watched the progression of the disease. I don’t know how long I have, but I doubt it’s more than a year, at most. So, I have been putting my affairs in order, preparing things so that it will be as easy as possible for you, when you must take up the responsibilities of the title.”

  Kevin felt his heart sink. He had hoped… but no, in the core of him, he had known, for a long time now, that what was amiss with his father was something like this. He had simply not wanted to believe it.

  “Will you at least see a physician, and confirm the truth of it – you could be wrong about it not being able to be healed.”

  “Perhaps – but not until after Maria and Charles are wed, and gone off to the north – Melton’s giving them that northernmost property as a wedding gift, did you know?”

  “I didn’t know – that is generous of him, and I did know that Charles had wanted to start a business in woollen mills in that area. But you attempt to distract me from the matter at hand. You must take the best care of yourself that you can, until we can get you to a physician at least. If I must spend even more time here, to get everything done, then I will, although… there are a few matters in London that I cannot completely abandon.”